For Erika
by Esmerelda01-is-Esme-Brett
Summary: A one-shot for my dear reviewer Erika/ Sevvy101; who is a joint winner of my competition for the best "The Daughter Of" review.


**This is a one-shot dedicated and based on my dear reviewer (and friend!) Erika/ Sevvy101.**

**Most recently, she wrote MULTIPLE reviews for a competition I held; which entailed the writer of the best review for my most recent "The Daughter Of" chapter would receive a one-shot interaction between a mediator character and themselves.**

**Erika won, (well, first equal, but that's a long story). **

**Here's the oneshot. It's her and Paul. The back-story is easy enough to figure out, and I did not add any ghost stuff because, honestly, I thought Erika would appreciate something along these lines much better.**

**However I think I should just add a wee disclaimer and say that while the character of "Erika" is indeed, based on Erika, I took a certain amount of creative liberties, making up the things I did not know about the real Erika and inventing personality to a large degree. **

**You should know that the real Erika is a much more beautiful, chirpy, bubbly (hence the nickname) individual than my creation and I apologise to her for that, simply adding that it was necessary for story tension!!! Lol. **

**Love and kisses Erika-bubble.**

**From Mariah**

"Erika"

_I cannot believe I got myself into this,_ I thought to myself mournfully, as I slammed a piece of toast down in the toaster for the third time straight and glared at the chronically unhurried appliance.

_Stupid toaster. Do your freaking job! Cook my toast!!_

_We all have to do our jobs, toaster. Even if we don't want to. For example, I personally would rather stay at home today, in my own flat, with a piece of fucking peanut butter TOAST and watch Gilmore Girls re-runs. _

Then I sighed. "I'm sorry toaster," I said aloud. "It's not your fault, it's really not. You see, I'm just projecting my misplaced aggression in your direction because technically I'm not allowed to yell at—"

"Shit," came an amused voice behind me. "You do that often?"

I didn't bother to turn, instead groaned and flicked a glance up at my ceiling. _I haven't even had my toast yet,_ I thought ruefully. 

"Talk to your toaster, I mean." The voice continued, a suppressed laugh evident in his vocal pitch.

"I know what you meant," I sighed, spinning around and meeting the ice-blue gaze I nowadays went so far out of my way to avoid. "Get out of my house Paul. Come to think of it, how'd you get IN my house?"

"You didn't lock it." Impudently, he stepped further inside my door and scooped up yesterday's paper from off the couch. Flicking it out to scan the front page, he deliberately ignored my expectant gaze with all the irreverence I knew him to be capable of.

Bastard.

"PAUL!" I practically shouted.

"Aw, come on . . ." He wheedled, with all the charm expected of one of his profession.

Fucking lawyers.

Can't take them anywhere.

"Don't be like that Erika-bubble . . ." he continued, slyly using his own personal nickname for me. I cringed at the reminder.

Rudely, I turned back to my toast.

It was burnt.

I heaved a great sight and as I shook out my medium length (for the moment, auburn coloured) hair out of my face, and swept it back with an elastic; I dispassionately prepared to lay down my own personal law to Paul.

"Paul. I know now and again you like to presume on our old college friendship inappropriately during company hours, but I'd really appreciate it if you could maintain a more formal working relationship—"

I broke of at his wide smirk. He wasn't going to let me patronise him. "Friendship, Erika-bubble?" I winced again, he saw it, and the smirk grew. "Bit more than that, really. And I'd like to say a few things, if you wouldn't mind."

"I do mind! A lot."

He shrugged. "Too bad—"

In an attempt to sink my point through his thick skull, I made use of a coined phrase he was bound to better understand: "I object!"

"Overruled." He said smoothly. Then in a moment I would have loved from anyone but him, he turned to my toaster and said with a perfectly straight face, "Counsellor, please control your client."

Instead of laughing, I made do with glaring as he began to speak.

Blasted lawyers. Certainly know how to yabber on and on. Don't they get it that short, concise and perfect is FAR preferable to long winded any day of the week.

. . . I could have been doing something way awesomer. Like . . . Like . . . naming intimate objects! That's a favourite pastime of mine—by far preferable to listening to this golden boy who'd merely developed into a golden man over the years, talk the hind leg off a donkey – not that I have any of those lying around. Ahem. Anyway. God, imagine the possibilities . . . o he who yields the mighty spaghetti-o's for a container . . .

Wait. Shut up Erika. Leave it till later. The asshole is talking.

Now, an asshole he may have been, but that doesn't (now OR back in the day), mean he wasn't so incredibly HOTT that I (like the rest of the world's female population,) wouldn't have been able to forgive him that, if it weren't for . . .

The Thing.

The Thing back in college.

I'd split out of that stupid school as quickly as I could after The Thing. I graduated and hightailed it right out of the city to get away from it all. I was out of there as quick as you like in order to pursue my writing career.

Five years later, and at a tender twenty-three years of age, I had a contract for a three series fantasy novel book deal in the pipeline, and was working on my next stand-alone novel.

However there was a catch.

I'd decided that it would be a brilliant idea to do a courtroom drama (you know, expansive coverage on the shades of grey, epic characterisation and confrontations of right and wrong, good and evil . . .) problem was, what I know about the law can be summarised into a single sentence:

Don't do bad shit.

And, unfortunately, for the narrative I had in mind, I needed more than that. A lot more. Like an inside knowledge as to the workings of criminal law.

Not a problem, my publisher had said, when I complained (at length, like all the best things – such as hair, breakfast and feedback – are,) to her. See, the thing was, high powered legal whizzes weren't cheap and certainly didn't waste time showing around as-of-yet-only-published-in-Finland novelists.

"Oh, don't sweat it!" my publisher, Emma, had said in her beautiful South African accent. "We'll sort someone out. I'll call you tomorrow with the details. You just worry about coming up with the literary gold, sweetling!!"

If I'd known who someone was to be (And what were the CHANCES!! Seriously!!!) I would have brutally murdered Em myself and learned about the judiciary system that way. First hand from inside a murder trial.

. . . I suppose that was still a viable option . . .

I eyed Paul speculatively as he spoke. Noticing my gaze – and mistaking it, like the arrogant prick he is – he paused, and changed directions in his speech. "Look, Erika, I know you just want to tear my clothes off right here right now and do it on the floor, but it's just going to have to wait until we get back from court—"

I spluttered in indignation, "EXCUSE ME! That was NOT what I was—UGH! You know what, I can't talk to you. You're too busy kissing your own ass to listen—"

"Speaking of asses I'd have fun kissing," he interrupted, and paused to throw me what I was sure was a physical appraisal of my own behind, then a meaningful wink, "We'll have to continue this discussion in the car." He glanced at his watch. "There are two things in this world that wait upon no man, Erika. Airlines, and Judge Withers."

I choked on a laugh, and Paul looked at me, eyebrows raised. "What?" I asked defensively. "That's not funny to you legal people? _Shit_."

He ignored that, "Come on, get your things." He turned on his heel and opened the door for me.

Meekly, I nodded. Then paused.

He read my mind and sighed. "No, you can't take the toast. Not even for you will I have peanut butter in my car." Then as if sensing the oncoming histrionics, he sighed. "I'll buy you waffles on the way. Will that do?"

Instantly cheered, as any sane person is by waffles, I nodded, grabbed my handbag and hurried out the door.

:-D

"I fucking hate traffic," I muttered to no one other than myself—seeing as the toaster wasn't available.

Paul assumed I was talking to him. "Tell me about it,' he said, taking his hands off the wheel of his Aston Marton (Vanquish, of course. ARE there any other cars?) In order to lean back in his seat and prop his hands up behind his head.

He was the picture of contentment that did not belong in a San Francisco traffic jam.

"I though you had your underwear up your ass about being late," I grumbled.

"Underwear, Erika? Don't be absurd. Commando's the only way to go," he said casually.

I could not—I COULD NOT—refrain from taking a quick glance at the area in question.

He saw me.

Of course he did.

"Firstly, that was a joke, I am a strictly briefs man, as I'm sure you remember—" it was here that I blushed and refused to meet his eyes, "—and furthermore I always factor a traffic allowance into my planning." He told me, and I heard rather than saw the trademark Paul Slater smirk make it's appearance, in its very widest I'm-the-cat-who-stole-the-canary-and-have-it-stored-away-in-my-pocket-for-later-snacking form.

. . . Then again. I'm just about done thinking about all the interesting things Paul has in his pants. That being what got me into trouble in the first place.

In college AND nowadays.

And that gave me an idea.

"By the way," I said, trying to imitate his casual air and sucking at it big time, "how is CHENOAL nowadays?"

He didn't miss a beat, or the malicious inflection in my voice. "Oh, your _best friend_?_"_

I winced as the vocal inflection hit home.

"She's good. Moved to Germany and joined the Air Force, so I hear." When I offered no comment, he continued. "My source tells me she married an equine dentist over there and has popped out 3.5 kids. And then, in between bombing third world countries, she's supposed to be taking a trip up Holland to take some small children hostage . . ."

It took me until then to realise that he was yanking my chain.

I reached out—belatedly—and backhanded his shoulder.

I think it hurt my hand more than anything else.

Lawyers have time to work out? What the HELL is that about?

He cracked up, wether at my gullibility or pathetic attempt at violence, I didn't know.

"Seriously!" I insisted.

He rolled his eyes. "You're no fun anymore Erika-bubble. Chenoal's in Florida. Teaching littlies ballet for beginners – and she's loving it. She hooked some investment banker over there; and is blissfully happy."

"Oh," I said, somewhat lamely. "That's great."

"Yeah," he said, and a real smile broke out across his face. "She's a great dancer. And she's great with kids. So it makes sense."

I remembered the night at a dinner party where Paul and Chenoal had danced, years ago and blushed at the memory of the antics of the girl I had once regarded as my best friend, and the man next to me.

"She's . . . something." I agreed. "And she's very talented."

I remembered being wickedly jealous of her then. Not just because of Paul – my crush on him at that time was at the same level of intensity of every girl from Yale who happened across his path. We ALL loved him. But that time, my jealousy was for her.

How I'd WISHED I could move like that.

Of course, then I discovered sex, and the realisation that we could ALL move like that.

Some of us just elect only to do it in private.

"Hey!!" Paul's voice startled me. "This is a great song!"

Three Doors Down. "Kryptonite."

I snorted; and took the opportunity to take a dig at him; even though I actually loved the song too. "Still believe in Superheros' do we Mr. Big-shot cynical lawyer?"

"Um, yeah," he said like I was ridiculous for even asking something with such an obvious answer. "You should see my pyjama's. Superman's all over them. Then again, he grinned evilly. I imagine that you'd like nothing better than to see my pyjamas' . . . in context."

I said nothing, and frowned out the window instead.

"Oh, come on!" He pleaded. "That was a writing joke, wasn't it? That was FUNNY, wasn't it?"

"That was sexually harassing."

"Well, yeah," he said, again using his 'well _duh_ isn't it obvious' voice. "All the best things are!"

"You are ridiculous."

"Thankyou." He said graciously, and without a pause he launched right into singing along: "If I'm alive and well will you be there, holding my hand, I'll keep you by my side with my superhuman eyes, kryptonite, YEEEEEEEAH!!!" And then he started flicking his head to the guitar solo.

It was impossible to repress my laughter. I tried, I really did. But it bubbled up out of me, a sound of mirth I'd almost forgotten I could create.

"See? I am funny."

I had to admit that he'd lightened up a whole lot since college. I couldn't imagine the moody rich boy rocking out at the traffic lights to a song that mentioned Kryptonite. Then again; I'd only ever seen him happy with Chenoal, and in those instances, I tried not to look."

I mentioned something along these lines to him – only without that last bit.

"Fair comment," he acknowledged, as the traffic began to inch forward and Paul had to put his hands back on the wheel. "But what I want to know is," Paul said, "what about you? You were the outrageously crazy chick who never gave a whack what anyone thought of her, read anime stories on your computer during your spare time, and used to randomly laugh out loud at what would appear to be nothing? Where'd she go? That girl loved me, I think." He winked, but that small motion did nothing to disguise the seriousness of his enquiry. Or the sheer perception of it.

I heaved a large sigh. "She grew up Paul. She grew up. She realised that life didn't quite work the way she thought it did. Boy meets Girl didn't really work out all that well. . ."

I'm sure he heard the sadness in my voice as well as I did.

"I see." Again, he turned his eyes away from mine and back to the road.

"Do you though?" I pressed.

Because I don't know if anyone has any real idea how much it hurts when Girl DOES meet Boy, but things go wrong, and the Boy ends up deserting Girl for a DIFFERENT girl.

"I . . . I'm sure that the . . . the boy had no idea of how much he hurt Girl. Or indeed, how often he thought of Girl. How frequently he wished he were with her. Until he decided he couldn't live another day without _his_ Girl . . ." He finally turned back to look at me. His eyes were pleading.

I looked him straight in the eye and didn't hesitate. "No. I'm sure he didn't have any idea." And then because I couldn't bear not to, with the scorching agony his eyes evoked in me, I looked away.

After another fifteen minutes of silence, I realised I couldn't take it. I had to ask. "How come . . . " I whispered, so quietly I wasn't sure he could even hear me, "after that . . . you two broke up?"

He was silent for a long time, and I thought he wasn't going to answer me. Fair enough. It had been a fairly impertinent question.

" . . . We . . . we grew apart. Changed." The traffic wasn't so fast that he had to keep his eyes on the road, and he turned to make eye contact with me. "I'll always love her, Erika. The teenager in me will never ever want anyone but her for the rest of my life—" he broke off as he noticed my expression.

The back of my throat tightened and I had to look away out the window, in a desperate hope that he would not have been able to read my expression.

Of course.

Of course, stupid stupid Erika . . .

He wasn't upset over losing me at all. It wasn't regret that laced his words and prompted his jokes. It was just . . . just what? Malice?

. . . _I'll never want anyone but her for the rest of my life. _

Ironic. Since there was never, NEVER anyone for me, but him.

I found myself getting angry. Angry at myself most of all. I shouldn't have expected our history to mean as anywhere near much to him as it did to me. Stupid stupid stupid Erika . . .

_DAMNIT!_ I thought as I felt tears welling. _Damn Damn Damnit to hell. He will NOT see me cry . . ._I furiously turned my head back to the window, and swiped at my cheeks with the back of my hand. Taking a couple of shaky breaths, I calmed myself.

"Anyway." I said, in a coolly professional voice, turning my face back to his. I ignored the gob smacked and yet thoroughly abashed expression I saw there. "That's enough talk of that."

We were silent for the rest of the trip. I don't know what he'd heard in my impulsively truthful words, but I was mad at myself for letting them out.

Stupid Erika.

Stupid stupid Erika.

And then we pulled up outside the courthouse.

"Um . . . if you'd like to . . . uh, wait on the steps there," Paul mumbled in a low voice, quite unlike his own, "I'll park the car and be right back to collect you."

_What, _I thought to myself viciously, jumping out of the car and slamming the door just as viciously. _Collect me? Like I'm a fucking telephone call? SONOFABITCH!!_

I debated just storming into the court and making my own damn way about, but two things dissuaded me from that plan. One, the security guards and metal detectors I could see in the doorway, and secondly; the near certain knowledge that even if I managed to get over my fear of people with guns long enough to make my way unaided past the security guard, I'd probably just be told by some important person to turn right back around and get my little ass out of there, on account of CLEARLY not belonging in there, with all the great legal brains of San Francisco.

Dumb.

It took ten minutes exactly for Paul to find me – where I'd petulantly seated myself on the benches across from where he'd told me. He; obviously over whatever deeper feelings had plagues him in the car (mooning some more over Chenoal, no doubt), frowned at my petty disobedience.

I felt like sticking my tongue out at him.

I might've too, if I hadn't been trying to seem professional – like my book deals were all signed and sealed and copies were selling like mad in bookstores thought the globe already. AND ebay frequented SIGNED copies.

Yeah.

Paul held out a brown paper bag at me. I frowned, and tried to place the delicious aroma. "What?"

"Waffles." He said succinctly. "I promised."

I sneered. "You've promised me a lot of things in your life Paul."

A gleam cam into his eyes, and he shrugged. "Ok then, if your sure . . ." he turned as if to take the waffles back or something, but I reached out and snatched them off him before he could.

He smirked at me. I glowered, but couldn't resist the waffles. I thought about not giving him any, just to be petty, but that was until I tasted them.

Glorious. Glorious glorious syrupy waffle . . .

Not even I was mean enough to not give someone something THIS good. Reluctantly I offered Paul half.

With a wry smile he declined, claiming to have already eaten. However he was betrayed by the memory I had of someone's rumbling tummy on the ride over. Couldn't have ALL been MY tummy noises. I forced the rest of the waffles on him and we finished breakfast right then and there outside the courtroom.

Was there any WONDER that I felt the way I did? What sort of man would turn down waffles just for me—

Ugh.

My life SUCKS.

"Right," Paul said, dumping the bag in the bin. "Ready?" He offered me his hand and when I stood on my own, ignoring it, he instead stubbornly took my elbow to escort me up the steps. I hissed a protest, unable to physically terminate all bodily contact again in protection of my "professional" image.

Because I would just look like too much of a freak if I were to be seen throwing a fit about a ridiculously good looking man like Paul Slater being gentlemanly enough to escort me up some stupid stairs.

So I smiled confidently and looked at the huge glass doors we were approaching.

This was instead of socking Paul in the eye.

"Morning Mr Slater," greeted the security guard I was trying to give a wide berth.

Paul, who knew my wariness for figures of authority with guns as well as I did, jut grinned as bent down over the sign in/admissions form. I peered over his shoulder to see how he was signing himself in, and to my utter chagrin, saw that he'd signed me in as well.

Sexist bastard.

I was about getting ready to snatch the pen out of his had and forcibly remove the sheet from him when he handed both sheet and pen to me with instructions to "Sign this please Ms Walker."

I was startled back into reality by his use of my surname.

The courts were public property. Both of us had reputations to uphold.

I took the proffered pen of him with a smile I knew to be my loveliest, and signed my name beside Paul's scrawled: "Paul Slater and Guest:"

Paul thanked the guard, we went through the whole security rigmarole and then we were in.

I pulled a slight book and pencil from my purse and stopped to scribble down a few pertinent details of the entrance hall.

Paul waited with more patience that I gave him credit for, until he ruined it by muttering out of the corner of his mouth; "Did I tell you how damn sexy you look in that dress? Particularly with the way you chew your lip when you concentrate like that . . ."

It was a favourite dress of mine. A fitted sheath in my favourite avocado green. And I KNEW I looked damn sexy in it, which was exactly my purpose. It brought out the red of my hair and mouth, and played up the planes of my face.

"Paul!" I said in a carrying voice, that had everyone in the near vicinity pausing to look up at us. "Don't tell me you _attorneys_ are actually allowed to do that! Isn't it illegal!?"

He gave me death glares and I grinned back. Then I said in my normal volume, "And keep your opinions to yourself. Better yet," I continued viciously, "There's a pay phone," I pointed it out to him, even though I was sure he knew its whereabouts better than I did. "Call Chenoal and see if you're luck is any better with her."

"Erika! What is _with_ you—"

"Oh, don't play the righteous guy with me, Paul. Don't think I don't remember your old college motto?" I quoted him, "'Any hole's a goal', right?"

That floored him.

I bet he thought I'd never in a million years remember that.

Unfortunately for the poor deluded soul, that's the kind of think a girlfriend will never, in a million years, forget.

I saw for a second anger wash over his face before he smoothed his features and compose himself. "Right, Ms Walker, if you'd like to go this way, we'll begin our tour."

Smugly, thinking I'd bettered him, I turned and walked through the door he indicated for me to open. Open and walked in, noted down the plain conference room without any real interest—seen these before, who hasn't?—and turned to exit the room.

Only to see Paul shutting the door behind himself and sliding a key into his pocket. The anger I'd only glimpsed before was now in full evidence.

I straightened up and met his glare directly.

"What the hell!" he burst. "Who ARE you Erika? Whose this cold, efficient—I'll grant you that—sarcastic, and to be honest BITTER, woman? WHERE the fuck did my Erika-bubble go?"

I tried to stare him down, I really did. But I was no match for him and my face crumpled, the tears I'd so successfully repressed in the car now flooding down my cheeks well and truly unheeded.

He was at my side in a second, arms around me, guiding me into one of the armchair surrounding the large oak conference table. He sat first and pulled me down into his lap, rocking me gently as I hiccoughed and snotted and was just generally miserable.

I don't know how long we sat there for. Could have been ten minutes, could have been two hours. Paul didn't try and provoke me any further, just let me sit and cry myself out. Once or twice there was a knock at the door and the handle flexed as someone tried to gain entry to the room, but each time Paul called something like: "Detained," or "Apologies", which I just sniffled my way through.

Eventually he spoke. "This woman I mentioned . . . I forgot to say just how much MORE beautiful she'd grown, or that I love the way she wears her hair now, and that she's gone back to glasses I love instead of the stupid contacts. I forgot to say . . ."

He trailed off and me, curiosity well and truly evoked, had to ask. "What?"

He smiled, and brushed my hair out of my eyes. "You didn't let me finish in the car earlier Erika. The twenty-year old in me will never want anyone but Chenoal for the rest of my life. But the man . . . the man will never want anyone but you."

He looked me straight in the eyes when he said it, and I could almost see the colour from my green eyes reflected in his blue.

His eyes crinkled around the corners (a change from college, and one I was surprised to find myself instantly loving those small lines with an aching fervour,) as he looked expectantly at me.

I realised it was my turn now. To say yes or no. To cast my vote, as it were. I considered carefully. There could be no verdict without a clear majority. Paul tugged on a lock of my hair, as if to remind me to hurry up.

I sniffed.

. . . Yeah, I ruined the moment. That'd be me, all right. Fuck. But I reckon I could remedy that.

Moving slowly, and keeping my eyes open, I moved my face down to his. He met me halfway and we kissed as we hadn't in years. I watched every flicker of emotion that passed through his icy eyes, and I knew he was doing the same.

I was happier at this moment, with Paul, than I had been in years.

His right hand flew up to gently hold my face, as I knew it would, and I flung my arms around his waist and pulled myself tighter to him, as he no doubt knew I would.

We tumbled down onto the floor, deliberate breathing and slow languid movements giving way to a more pressing pace, heavy breathing and frantic touches, as we finished reliving the past and moved on to the future. I banged my head on a table leg, and couldn't even bring myself to care as I began to quickly divest him of his shirt.

Probably not an appropriate place . . . a small corner of my mind cautioned me, but I quickly told it to shut the fuck up.

Our tongues swirled again, and I finally let my eyes drift shut, contented enough that his hands, now under my skirt and resting in place at the tops of my thighs, were back where they belonged.

He broke the kiss to trace a burning pattern down the side of my neck and over my collarbone—I squealed a little when he bit the skin there, but otherwise could not find it in myself to care.

"Madam," Paul breathed between laboured breaths and other fun little activities. "Madam foreman of the Jury, have you reached a verdict?"

I grabbed his chin in both hands and pulled his gaze up to meet my own. "We have your honour," I replied, letting my mouth smile, but my eyes reveal my true sincerity. "In the case of Slater vs State, we the jury find the defendant . . ."

I paused to smile down into the puppy dog blue eyes that I'd once lost myself in. It seemed now to be a poetic twist of fate to be in the very same situation, and be finding myself instead.

"Not Guilty."

**Love and kisses**

**Jayne**


End file.
